And all I loved, I loved alone
by thejacinthsong
Summary: Swaplock: In which Sherlock Holmes is the one with the crush, and Molly Hooper is oblivious. (Sherlock/Molly)
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: __And so begins what I have been working on for a few months! __An enormous thank you to forthegenuine and americancumberbabe, for their help and patience._

* * *

_"From childhood's hour I have not been_  
_As others were; I have not seen_  
_As others saw; I could not bring_  
_My passions from a common spring._  
_From the same source I have not taken_  
_My sorrow; I could not awaken_  
_My heart to joy at the same tone;_  
_And all I loved, I loved alone."_

- Edgar Allan Poe

* * *

"Why on earth would you need to go to St. Barts to confirm the bloke's alibi? What good would that do anybody?" Lestrade demanded, confused and annoyed, waving Anderson along. Sherlock sniffed distastefully as the forensics 'specialist' walked away, still glancing back with venomous looks. He was still smarting, no doubt, from Sherlock's dismissal of his frankly outlandish and almost Hollywood explanation.

"To track the bruising patterns, obviously. If I can test out similar brutalities on a freshly dead body mirroring the bruises on our friend over there, I can confirm Mr. Ford's alibi. You really should be onboard, Lestrade. Former police captain? You really don't want that kind of spotlight on Scotland Yard." Lestrade frowned, inept and far too slow for his position.

"We can just consult a doctor with the pictures of the body, Sherlock; for heaven's sake! You don't need to mutilate another person — are you even allowed to do that?"

"I don't trust another person's assessment, Lestrade, you know that," Sherlock said coldly, trying to edge away while his excuse still had sway. They were beginning to wear thin, he knew, and Lestrade really wasn't that stupid not to catch on.

"Fine, give me a minute, I'll leave Donovan in charge."

Sherlock pressed a hand firmly against the D.I.'s chest, stopping him from moving. "Pardon?" he asked in a low voice.

"What, you don't think I'm letting you go alone, do you? To beat up a body, when you could just, I dunno — google it."

Sherlock glared frostily at him. "I am quite certain your services would be of better use here, especially considering how Anderson is trying to convince everyone that this man beat himself almost to death and then slit his own throat. Really, Detective Inspector, you would be doing England a favour by letting him rot at a desk job. Or better yet, fire him."

"All right, never mind, you go alone. I actually don't want to come," Lestrade huffed.

Sherlock didn't waste another moment to let Lestrade change his mind again, striding quickly towards the busy road with a hand stretched out to flag down a cab. He ignored Donovan's jeer as he flew past her; his heartbeat was already speeding up, and he did not have any more brain capacity to waste on her; not even to tell her the truth about Anderson's supposed intentions to leave his wife. Fools, the three of them.

He flung himself into the first cab that had stopped, slammed the door closed and called out the address for the hospital before he returned to his phone and the sixth draft of a text confirming his impending arrival. Disgruntled with the nerves and indecision, he finally sent it in anger, before he could talk himself into rewriting it, again. Her response was nonchalant and brief, characterised with absolutely none of Sherlock's own turmoil. It made him burn, just a little, and crossly he wished that he could bring himself to drive her away once and for all, force her to see what everyone else did.

But after two years he had had no success, and so he found himself waiting outside of the lab a little bit longer so that he didn't seem too eager. She might take it the wrong way (or even worse, the right way) and then rumours would start to spread. Not that she was the type, of course, to maliciously gossip (she only bought those magazines because she knew he liked to steal them. She obviously never read them, but he preferred that neither of them ever speak of it), but she might offhandedly remark to someone, and then his reputation would be shredded. Like Greg, for instance, he thought spitefully.

"Sherlock?" her confused voice asked. He whipped around, looking down at Molly's curious eyes. "What are you doing out here?" she asked curiously. Sherlock cleared his throat and flipped his collar up, bringing the material closer.

"Doctor Hooper," he greeted stiffly, ignoring how she immediately rolled her eyes. "I was just texting Lestrade to let him know I had arrived." Doubtfully, she glanced down at his empty hands, and he quickly he shoved his left hand into the pocket of his jacket, forgetting that his phone was in his other pocket.

"Right. Okay," she finally said, her eyes flicking back up to his face. "You said you needed a body? For a case — a proper, Scotland Yard one?"

Sherlock nodded tersely at her stern voice. She still wouldn't let go of that one incident with the acid. The damage really hadn't been that bad.

"Come on then," she said more cheerfully. Sherlock let her steer the conversation on the way to the morgue, content to listen to her speak, and intent on hiding his tied tongue and pounding pulse from her.

"Honestly, just call him Greg, Sherlock, or at least Gregory, if you have to be stiff and posh. He lets you get away with almost anything, so stop pretending that you don't know his name. Just use it, it would make things easier, and I wouldn't have to answer his interrogating texts anytime you got anywhere near Barts!"

"What makes you thinking I actually know his name? I have a finite amount of brain space, Doctor Hooper, as you well know. First names are unnecessary for my purposes," he managed defensively.

Molly glared at him. "I heard you making a list of names beginning with the letter 'G,' in your mind palace. Don't lie to me; just stop playing mind games with the poor man. He's already going through a lot, and the two of you are supposed to be on the same side. He might even let you be more horrible to Phillip, if you were nicer to him."

"I do not need to be on his good side, Doctor Hooper; I do not need anyone," Sherlock reminded her icily, even if her Anderson argument was a good one (although, Phillip?). He was grateful his gloves hid the irritating perspiration: a constant in her presence (he had conducted the necessary experiments). Molly only rolled her eyes again — she was going to give herself one of her headaches — and silently pointed him towards the single body bag laid out on their usual table. Must have been a slow day.

"Arse," she muttered. "Go on." She waved a hand and Sherlock promptly followed, swiftly unzipping the bag. Caucasian male; late sixties; recently arrived though dead at least ten hours; natural causes, no foul play, though he was lucky, considering his weight and diabetes. It would do, particularly the width and softness of his stomach.

Re-zipping the bag, he glanced up at Molly, who was leaning against the next table and skimming through a report of an autopsy done in the previous shift, not paying the slightest attention to him, to his extreme dissatisfaction.

"How fresh?" he found himself blurting out, almost desperate, even though he could trace the man's medical history back to his early adolescence. Molly's eyes flickered to his, and she lowered the folder.

"Just in," she said, taken aback. "Sixty-seven, died of natural causes around fourteen hours ago - "

"Ten," Sherlock corrected automatically. Molly glowered.

"Fourteen hours ago, look at the livor mortis." He obliged, opening the bag and pressing his fingers firmly against the vibrant marks. They didn't pale in the slightest.

"Ah. Very well — continue."

"He used to work here as an orderly." A brief echo of a smile ghosted across her lips, "He was nice." Sherlock frowned, looking back down to check for the well-worn and obviously treasured wedding ring.

"Wasn't he married, Doctor Hooper?"

"He was still a nice person, Sher-lock." She admonished, drawing out his name teasingly. It was an old argument that she had given up on, though she continued to refuse to follow his example and use his surname. She had at least stopped correcting him.

Sherlock promptly scowled. "He will do," he told her sharply and distractedly. "I'll start with the riding crop."

In two years of his frequenting her morgue, Molly had continuously proved to be pleasantly adaptable to his requests given the right motivation. She still dropped the folder and gaped at him.

"Sorry—" she stammered, "you didn't mention you were going to beat up an old, dead man. You said you needed to check an alibi!"

"I do: this is how."

Molly closed her eyes, rubbing her right temple gently. Sherlock exhaled at the silent request and feigned annoyance that she had asked. "Matthew Stone was found this morning beaten savagely with a cut throat. I need to coordinate the bruising patterns between this very 'nice' man and Mr. Stone in order to confirm his neighbour's alibi. Evidently my conclusions that Mr. Ford could not possibly have murdered Mr. Stone are not enough; Scotland Yard is demanding what they refer to as 'concrete proof.' I need to check the formation of bruises. Please."

He could see Molly wavering; she believed too strongly in justice to stop him.

"Joseph Ford had two young children and a wife who are wrongly being told that he brutally murdered their neighbour," Sherlock continued. "Uncertainty is a destructive force; the longer it remains, the more damage it will do in his life."

"All right," Molly interrupted. "Just... avoid the face?" she grumbled. "His family wants an open casket." Sherlock nodded his understanding curtly, drawing out the riding crop he had been hiding.

* * *

There was something cathartic about whipping the pale, blubbery expanse of flesh that had dared to live and die such a normal, dull life. Death of natural causes... how maudlin. Although, Sherlock glimpsed at Molly: a life surrounded by people you were attached to didn't always seem altogether horrific. She was unaware of his inner monologue as she tentatively watched him with wide eyes and raised eyebrows. Occasionally she flinched, and called out a warning, if he 'got too close' to the face... people used to have respect for science.

"You're having a good day then," she said drily when Sherlock stepped back to take a breath. He eyed her and tilted his head slightly.

"Nothing special," he shrugged, feeling oddly warm when she chuckled.

"Do you need to rush off? I can text you the results if you want."

"I can wait," Sherlock said, far too quickly.

"You sure? I don't mind; I'm spending the next couple of hours at least working my way through a pile of paperwork."

"Which is beneath your admirable set of skills," Sherlock snapped.

"Yes, thank you, but normal, boring people need to complete normal, boring aspects of their jobs and lives."

"Dull."

"We'll both survive." She continued to look at him, and god help him he nearly started to fidget. "Well?"

"What?"

"The results?" she repeated slowly. Sherlock frowned, cornered and dangerously close to flushing.

"Fine, if you insist," he said haughtily. "I'll be upstairs in the lab, I need to check on a few things — ten minutes?" He almost winced at the cracked hopefulness in his voice, but Molly as usual was oblivious to the war inside his head (something he was either grateful or resentful about). She nodded in agreement easily and absentmindedly, starting to move away from him and Sherlock momentarily lost his grip.

"Coffee?"

Molly covered a yawn. "Yeah, sure, I was going to grab some anyway. I'll bring a cup when I bring the pictures. Black, two sugars, right?" Sherlock swallowed past the lump in his throat and nodded before he fled from the room.

"She sees but she does not observe," he muttered angrily to himself, stomping towards the lab and plotting to make a terrible mess for her to clean up.

* * *

War veteran, late thirties, bachelor (obviously — why else would Mike have brought him), easy-going and an unscratched thrill for danger. Potential.

There was something miserable and traumatised about John Watson, from the way he moved his head, his eyes darting to every corner of the room before he replied to Mike's pointless question. His phone's backlog of calls came from only two people: his brother and his presumable therapist... his abject loneliness bled through the mask he thought he wore well. It was uncomfortably familiar, a painful reminder when a more cheerful Molly entered the room with his coffee (she had put lipstick on to make her lips seem fuller; a simple crush on the new coffee barista), handed to him along with pictures confirming Mr. Ford's innocence as she greeted Mike and introduced herself to John.

His eyes followed her as she shook John's hand, whose PTSD momentarily kept him from any lechery, and slipped out the door, her final words wishing John luck. With what, exactly, Sherlock wanted to ask, his lips tightening; she had just met the man, she couldn't have inside jokes already.

"Uh... Sherlock?" Mike asked, startling him out of his glower. Sherlock cleared his throat quickly and turned back to John Watson.

"How do you feel about the violin?"

* * *

"You know, my colleagues are bewildered and annoyed that I insist on keeping the fridge stocked with milk," Molly told him later that evening as she grumpily entered the lab and eyed the empty milk cartons lined up beside him. He had used them up in his latest batch of bacteria.

"Science, Doctor Hooper, science. All in the name of science," Sherlock muttered, carefully setting aside another Petri dish. A thought occurred to him, and he looked up to frown at her. "What are you doing here?"

"I work here, Sherlock," Molly said breezily. "At Barts. I'm not an assistant Mycroft hired for you."

"I am aware, Doctor Hooper," Sherlock snapped in reply, on edge. She was not supposed to be here.

Molly raised her eyebrows. "Matt asked me to cover for him; he was coming down with the flu."

"He was not," Sherlock said immediately, pieces falling into place. "He most likely took the newest receptionist to his regular motel to add another notch to his line of conquests. He was perfectly healthy two hours ago."

"Or," Molly said neutrally, resting her chin on her right hand, "perhaps you were driving him crazy."

"Did he say that?"

"He may have implied that your behaviour was making him ill."

"A pitiful excuse," Sherlock sniffed. "He went off with the receptionist."

Molly sighed heavily and scratched a nail roughly across her forehead. "It wouldn't be the first time he's done this, I guess," she said.

"He is taking advantage of you, Doctor Hooper," Sherlock told her sharply, pushing the slide of blood cells underneath the microscope. "And he is hardly a mastermind. It would not be difficult to report him." Mycroft did owe him, after all.

But Molly was already shaking her head resolutely. "No, Sherlock, you promised you wouldn't get involved. What Matt—"

"Doctor Bauer—" Sherlock interrupted, giving up the pretence of paying attention to his slides and straightening to face Molly's uncertain gaze, "is frighteningly unimaginative and unintelligent, spending most of his time attempting to sexually conquer every person in this building he deems to be physically attractive. He is warping this respected establishment into one of those mind numbing television programmes."

Molly quirked an eyebrow thoughtfully. "Like Grey's Anatomy? Or General Hospital?" she asked nonchalantly. Sherlock tottered right into the trap and nodded emphatically.

"Meaning that you've watched both? Enough that you know the basic story lines?"

Sherlock gaped. Was that all she had absorbed? "Of course not," he snapped. "I have far better things to do with my time than waste hours in front of insipid soap operas." Molly nodded easily, but Sherlock knew better. "Occasionally Mrs. Hudson's television doesn't work, and she insists on watching them in my flat."

"That must be annoying," Molly said solemnly. Sherlock scowled, finally realising what she was doing.

"You are attempting to change the subject," he observed. "Quite poorly, I might add."

"It was working."

"It was not."

Molly rolled her eyes with a grin. "Sherlock, I know you mean well, but don't get involved and try and ruin his career. You're already unpopular with..." She hesitated.

"With...?"

"Well, everyone," she finished apologetically. Sherlock started to grumble. "Sherlock."

"What?"

"Can. You. Promise."

"Can I, or may I?" he answered childishly.

"Can. I am definitely asking if you are able to."

"I am perfectly capable—"

"Then will you? I really don't need your protection and I'd rather you not ruin my reputation with my colleagues any further."

Sherlock sighed. "Very well," he conceded. "But please ensure that the increased work, stress and fatigue does not affect the work you do with me."

"Of course," Molly said brightly. "Coffee?"

"Fine. Black, two—"

"Sugars, yes, I know," Molly sighed, leaving without another word. He saw her reach for the tube of lipstick in her coat pocket as she swished out the door. Clearly the coffee barista was also working tonight, as unsettling as the thought was.

When she reentered with two steaming paper cups, Sherlock took his silently, unable to find anything to say.

"So you finally found a flat mate," Molly began conversationally. "John seems perfect."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Perfect?"

"Well, he just got back from Afghanistan..."

"And?"

Molly paused, tapping a single finger softly against the table. "He seems... lonely," she finally said. "And you need somebody — I think a friend like John would be good for you. For the both of you."

Sherlock sneered at her. "I don't have friends," he hissed, old memories bubbling up painfully. "Nor do I need them. Doctor Watson will be half of the rent at the flat. That is it."

To her credit, Molly didn't even blink, nodding slowly and tiredly. "What does that make me?" she asked quietly, almost timid.

"An asset," he snarled, his hand slipping in his fury and sending several Petri dishes crashing down to the floor. He jerked back, cursing as milk splashed over his papers and clothes.

"Are you okay?" Molly asked cautiously, her steady, unwavering voice breaking through the furious heat clanging in his mind. He jerked his head up; she was approaching slowly with her hands stretched out towards him, looking worried and sympathetic, a muddle of emotions he spent his waking hours burying. She looked... taken aback; no, shocked. No —

Frightened; an echo of that night he had stumbled into the morgue, as high as he had ever been, sleepless and gaunt, pinning her to the wall and demanding answers. Then, she had knocked him out with a beaker to his head and backed away. Now, a year and a half later, she moved closer to him.

His stomach twisted painfully, and he nearly reached for her, to try and hold and comfort her in the way he had only ever observed.

"Fine," he said, his voice strangled and cracked. "Fine."

"When was the last time you slept? Or ate?" she asked, the strained tension slowly fading from the lines in her face and body. He looked blankly at her, and she sighed, like she had found the answer in his silence. "Go home, Sherlock. You need to rest. I'll clean up; no, I won't tell anyone." Her voice was low and resigned but the finality shamed him, so he left her there with his mess.

* * *

'I'm sorry. SH.,' he texted the next morning, after he had choked down some biscuits and managed a restless sort of sleep.

'It's fine. Don't worry about it,' she replied a few hours later. He knew to take her at her word, and focused on burying the incident deeply and casting it aside in preparation for John's arrival.

With her words in mind, he waved off John's formalities and forced himself to use his new flat mate's first name.

"Well this could be very nice," John said optimistically, glancing around the flat. "Very nice indeed." Sherlock smirked weakly and glanced smugly around his flat.

"I thought so," he replied.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Sorry for the slight wait — I meant to have this up a few days ago!_

_Thank you all for your wonderful and supportive comments, and for giving a confidence to this story that I truly appreciate. I only hope to be able to live up to any expectations!_

_Again — thank you to forthegenuine and americancumberbabe for their help!_

* * *

"People don't have arch-enemies," John informed him three days later, quietly, thoughtfully; chewing carefully on his linguini. He was still adjusting to the richer and more luxurious food — savouring each mouthful like a lost memory. It took Sherlock a moment to respond — he had perhaps not made it clear enough that they were _working — _but he forced himself to answer civilly; John had obviously been weighing these words since he had met Mycroft. Or rather, since Mycroft had _kidnapped _him.

"I'm sorry?"

"In real life," John repeated. "There are no arch-enemies in real life. Doesn't happen." He said it with determined absolution, a curious belief, considering where he had spent the bulk of the last six years. Disinterested with whatever his new 'flat mate' was trying to point out, and resolving to leak North Korea's latest activities and ruin Mycroft's attempts to hide it from the United Nations, Sherlock turned back to the window, his eyes almost vibrating out of his skull.

"Doesn't it?" he asked blandly; he certainly wasn't fond of the _barista _Molly was wasting her time with (his coffee was admittedly acceptable, but _he _wasn't). Although perhaps that didn't count, as _Francis Knowles _(a throughly pompous name) did not know it was Sherlock who kept stealing his keys and cellphone. "Sounds a bit dull."

"So who did I meet?"

Hastily, Sherlock tried his hand at distraction; he had no wish to fully explain his relationship with Mycroft in any kind of depth. "What do people have then, in their _real _lives?" He couldn't quite keep the disdain from his voice.

"Friends; people they know, people they like, people they don't like... girlfriends, boyfriends..." Sherlock fought the urge to roll his eyes and snap; John obviously had no more idea about how to lead a regular, _'normal'_ life than Sherlock did. Too long in the desert, clearly.

"Dull," he allowed dismissively.

"You don't have a girlfriend then?"

Sherlock thought — briefly, bitterly — of Molly. "Not really my... _area," _he sneered, twisting the knife in his chest firmly and resolutely.

"Mm." John took another twirl of his linguini into his mouth. "Oh," he said, as if he had reached an epiphany. "So you've got a boyfriend then; which is _fine, _by the way."

"I know it's fine," Sherlock said with a frown. "And no, I don't."

"Fine. Good. So you're single then, like me." John went back to his food, and Sherlock indulged in a slight crisis, without an idea of how to continue with this baffling conversation. He didn't _seem _to be sexually or romantically interested in Sherlock, and yet his questions...

"John... um, I think you should know I consider myself married to my work." _And ensnared by another woman. _His words were almost blatantly false, but nerves had driven him to babbling. "And while I am _flattered—" _Was he? Or was that what he was supposed to say? "—I'm not really looking for any—"

"No," John interrupted firmly and shook his head abruptly, frustrated. "I wasn't asking… _No. _I just meant... it's fine; it's all... _fine." _This was what Molly constantly lectured him about; _subtext, _Sherlock realised shrewdly. He wished he had paid more attention. He instead bit back a snappish retort; he despised and _rejected _pity for a _reason_. and the insincere sentiment that accompanied it.

"Good," he managed instead. "Thank you." John nodded sharply, and then a cab stopped, and the evening was thrown back into disarray.

* * *

"That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done," John gasped, once they were both safely inside the block of flats. Still panting, Sherlock grinned down at the former soldier.

"And you invaded Afghanistan," he quipped, as John began to laugh delightedly. It was an odd feeling to be the one to prompt a positive response from a near-stranger, but it was appealing. Sherlock glanced over the deep, dark rings underneath his eyes; John Watson had likely not had an uninterrupted or regular bout of sleep since returning.

"That wasn't just me," John remarked forlornly, unaware of Sherlock's piercing thoughts. Molly had had a point, he realised astutely. John was a good match for him. "Why aren't we back at the restaurant?" John abruptly asked, his breathing evening out and his head twisting around curiously. Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, pulling out his phone.

"Oh, they can keep an eye out. It was a long shot anyway."

"So what were we doing there?"

"Just passing the time. And proving a point," Sherlock told him idly.

"What point?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, aware of the fact that he had just met John; perhaps he was supposed to hold back just slightly for the moment.

"You," he said after a moment. He didn't need to wait for a reply, turning to call after Mrs. Hudson. "Doctor Watson will take the room upstairs!"

"Says who?" John asked sharply and needlessly. Seeing Angelo's shape through the window (he was always good with timing), Sherlock nodded towards the front door, seconds before the knocking started.

"Says the man at the door," Sherlock said smugly. He left John there to creep into Mrs. Hudson's kitchen and pilfer a few biscuits.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson cried tearfully, from somewhere on the stairs. Brushing crumbs from his mouth and frowning, Sherlock hurried back to the foyer, where John was holding his cane in bewilderment. "What have you done?" she asked him in a trembling voice, knowing altogether too well what he was capable of. He abruptly heard it; the sounds of Scotland Yard in his flat, presumably _without _a warrant. He jumped up the stairs immediately, cursing his distraction and inflamed by the smugness on Lestrade's face.

"Well what do you call this then?" he demanded loudly, gesturing wildly at the parasites crawling around his flat, dismantling his possessions.

"A — a drugs bust!" Lestrade said innocently and improvised. Sherlock shut his mouth immediately, hot shame and anger coiling in his gut. His problems with addiction were not open to be _abused _in order to infiltrate _his _(or _theirs, _now, he supposed) flat.

"What?" John said incredulously, worsening the feeling. "Seriously? _This _guy, a junkie? Have you met him?" Lestrade's expression couldn't be more triumphant. Sherlock moved closer to John, leaning closer to his ear.

"John…" he said warningly, ignored completely.

"I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day; you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational."

_"John," _Sherlock snapped, because although the flat had admittedly been purged of both cocaine and morphine, there were several substances that could be possibly misconstrued. "You probably want to shut up; _now."_

"Yeah, but come on," John trailed off, his conviction draining away slowly as he stared up at Sherlock. "No," he said immediately.

"What?"

_"You?"_

"Shut up!" Sherlock said angrily, surprised at the dull pang at John's obvious and _uninvited_ disappointment. But then he caught sight of _both _Anderson and Donovan tinkering in the kitchen, and he threw himself at changing the subject (if they checked the breadbox, then he would _really _be in trouble).

* * *

"So what was it?" John asked, perched on the couch and shovelling dim sum into his mouth.

"What was what?" Sherlock asked distractedly, his mind still back at the crime scene with Jeffrey Hope's dead body.

"What were you on?"

Sherlock stiffened. "Who said I was _on _anything?" he demanded sharply.

"You didn't have to," John continued simply. "It actually makes sense. I should have seen it when you showed me how many nicotine patches you were using." Delicately, Sherlock pushed a piece of beef into his mouth, chewing quickly. John wasn't looking at him, lost in his own deductions. "You really _would _do anything to keep from being bored, wouldn't you?"

"John," Sherlock said impatiently.

"If we're going to be flatmates, I need to know if I'm dealing with a drug addict," John interrupted bluntly. "I think you owe me that much." They stared stubbornly at one another for a few seconds, and then Sherlock blinked, cleared his throat, and sighed.

"It isn't a particularly unique story," he said dully. "It started when I was younger; it wasn't an addiction at first, just something I'd occasionally dabble in. Then I became dependent. My usual supplier took off, and I was buying it on the street. Mycroft threw me into a rehabilitation centre twice; didn't take. I've been clean for two years."

"What changed your mind?" John asked curiously, and Sherlock was grateful for the lack of pity or judgment.

"I… frightened someone. Hurt them. I didn't _mean _to," Sherlock spat. "But it happened anyway, and I realised losing control of my brain in such a manner was no longer a viable option."

"How badly did you hurt 'the person?'" John asked, and Sherlock made a note to have a conversation regarding John's frequent dependence on air quotations in the near future.

He flinched. "I didn't. Not really," he protested quietly. "Fright — that was _it_. I _scared_… the person. But it was enough."

"What were you taking?"

"Cocaine. Occasionally morphine."

"And you haven't relapsed since?"

"No," Sherlock said firmly.

"That's…" John paused, likely looking for the words to condemn him. He shut his eyes. "…impressive," John finished sincerely.

Sherlock gaped. _"What?" _he demanded before he could stop himself.

"I'm a _doctor, _Sherlock; I don't pretend that overcoming an addiction is easy."

Sherlock continued to stare, but John, both nonchalantly and pragmatically, took another mouthful.

"So, why does your website have some sort of manifesto dedicated to ash?" he asked innocently, obviously giving the conversation an escape. Sherlock took the olive branch gratefully.

* * *

He had said love was a more vicious motivator; and he had meant it. It wasn't simply something he had observed over the years, or from the memories of Mycroft's vicious lectures that spat on the very idea of genuine, honest sentiment. It was the knowledge that he would do anything to protect her from harm; there was no doubt in his mind, a fact as plain as the colour of tarred lungs or Anderson's low IQ. She had unknowingly taken his heart from him — _without asking, _he might add_ — _and he had no idea how to take it back (did he even _want_ it back?).

But he knew, just watching her curl a stray wisp of hair behind her ear, biting her lip idly as she signed off an autopsy report, that he would be willing to compromise his values, his morals, his _life, _to keep her safe and happy. And that was _terrifying._

He couldn't let that evening go; the brief hour in the company of a man Sherlock may have once recognised as a kindred spirit, before he had dirtied his hands in blood for the amusement of an unfamiliar name. If anything, Jeffrey Hope's deranged state was a chilling reminder of Sherlock's future, should he ever surrender fully to the madness that followed unbridled emotion.

It had been two weeks since Hope had cried out the name in anguish, his life fading abruptly within the hour. Yet Sherlock couldn't let go of the viciousness in his desperation, pressing his foot to a bleeding wound to hurt an old and broken man. But what tortured him the most was his ignorance of which had been the right pill. Would he have died as well if it hadn't been for John, too drawn into the game of _chess_ to care that he had gone too far?

In that time, John Watson had moved in to 221B officially, already firmly asserting his presence in the flat and Sherlock's life, which he found himself not minding as much as he would have initially thought. The death of Hope had left John's mind, too preoccupied with his alcoholic and lonely sister, and the night terrors that still plagued him. Even Mycroft hadn't shaken him, not in the end. Mrs. Hudson approved and doted on the Doctor, with tea, biscuits and reality television programmes, while Lestrade had taken him to a _pub. _Everyone was relieved at John's entrance and were more accommodating for him; more _cheerful. _They saw John as a new prop to reign Sherlock in — _clearly — _and as much as Sherlock was making room for the good doctor, he still resented everyone else; he was no child.

Only Molly had not modified her treatment of Sherlock; she welcomed John as his own person, but not as Sherlock's new trainer. And he loved her more for it. For her wholehearted acceptance of his difficult character. Her acceptance that didn't make room for the idea that Sherlock needed to be controlled and _leashed._

But he still couldn't figure out if he had taken the correct pill, and the not knowing was occupying most of his thoughts. Hope had swallowed his pill, and Lestrade had refused to allow an autopsy, directing that the body to a different hospital to prevent Molly's intervention. Even the mystery of Moriarty paled in comparison; the idea of another sadistic pervert existing to watch others kill, to revel in the seduction of desperation and pain wasn't interesting or new. 'Moriarty' was no where near the top of his priorities.

Sherlock needed to know if he had signed his own death warrant that night; robbed himself of the dullness of a natural death because he was frustrated and _bored, _drawn into the game of Jeffrey Hope. Had John not intervened, would he still be living? Would Molly Hooper have been the last one to touch him, carving into his lifeless body to examine the contents of the poison staining his insides? Would she have _really_ cared?

_Had he chosen the correct pill?_

Without a case, John lounging or chasing a 'proper' job, and the preoccupation of Jeffrey Hope, Sherlock had barricaded himself at St. Barts to find the space to _think_. Molly had been working more than she should have been the last few days, claiming favours for her colleagues as an explanation. But Sherlock knew better. He knew that Lestrade had told her what had happened, and she was quietly keeping him from being alone. At the moment he didn't want to challenge her or drive her away from him: to her warm flat and her cat, instead of passing hours in the cold and lifeless laboratory with his silence and infuriated mutterings.

"You need to move on," Molly said softly on the fifteenth day, suddenly appearing beside him to place one of the _barista's _coffees by his elbow. His stomach twisted — she was _glowing — _but he thanked her quietly and drank the liquid anyway, ignoring the searing heat relighting his nerves.

"I don't know to what you are referring, Doctor Hooper," he warned her tersely. She didn't pay it the slightest attention, to no surprise, he noted with a fond exasperation.

"There is no _suggestion, _Sherlock," she replied, approaching severity in her tone. "Sherlock," she repeated imploringly, reaching to pull his hand off of the microscope and enfolding it in her small, warm grasp, "it really doesn't matter which pill was the right one; you're alive — that's _it. _Even if you were _incredibly _stupid."

"Who told you?" Sherlock asked quietly, without looking at her. She squeezed his hand tightly, and his gut clenched.

"Greg," she replied softly. He pulled away immediately — _gently — _and peered back through the microscope, trying to ignore how his hand now sparked, urging him to take back her hold. She didn't move, still close enough that her lab coat brushed his elbow. She was too close, he couldn't _think, _as she firmly repeated his name, demanding his attention.

"I need to know," he finally admitted, in a whisper. It was all the honesty Sherlock could muster. He was unable to fully express the crushing reality that _maybe _he had been wrong: that his brain to which he clutched his worth to had failed him, and had maybe_, nearly_ taken his life from him, because he was too _easy _to manipulate in his boredom.

Molly sighed, resigned, producing a very thin file from the drawer just behind him. "I know," she admitted, pushing the folder into his hands. Curious and obliging, listless with fatigue and hunger, he opened it and promptly gaped at the answers he had been looking for.

"But he swallowed his pill, and Lestrade confiscated the other — there was no autopsy, no toxicology report," Sherlock insisted. "You can't possibly…"

"Yes, I can. I have a good friend who works at St. Joseph's, and he had both the body and the other pill. Greg found supplies of the antidote in Mr. Hope's flat, and in his pockets. Both pills were poison, that is _why _they were identical. There was no 'good' pill; they were both lethal, and either one would have killed you, unless you had acted _very _quickly. But he had a gun…"

"A fake gun," Sherlock corrected.

"Did you know that at the time?"

"Yes."

"Oh," Molly paused. "Okay, then _maybe _you could have gotten out of there alive, but only if you had correctly administered the antidote, which you didn't know he had." Molly smiled at him slightly, and then started to walk away, leaving Sherlock holding every answer to the questions he had been taunting himself with.

"Did Lestrade do this?"

Molly turned back to him and shook her head. "Part of it; he wanted to know if you were right, but he didn't want you to have the answers. It was supposed to be a lesson of some sort."

"Then why did you tell me?"

For a few, slow moments, Molly just looked at him, tapping her foot gently against the floor. "You've spent the majority of the last two weeks moping in here and terrorising my colleagues. Dave has actually _pulled_ some of his own hair out, the little that you haven't forced into a premature grey, and Matt is plotting your brutal murder," she smirked, the amusement in her eyes failing to mask the purity of her compassion. "Telling you was the lesser of two evils, really."

He should thank her; she alone had not plotted against him, had not left him to his own devices. He needed to do _something. _

"Coffee?" The word spilled out of his mouth, inelegant and rushed.

Molly frowned. "You already finished? All right, I guess, in a minute—"

"No—" he interrupted, clearing his throat and flexing his hand impatiently. "Would _you _like a coffee? Or... tea?"

She glanced at the cup that she had just brought down, and then smiled up at his awkward stance. "Um, sure; okay! I have to run to a department meeting, but I should be back in the hour, if you're still around. Half—"

"Coffee and half milk. No sugar. I know," Sherlock said in a low voice, pushing his eyes against the microscope.

Molly snorted. "Let me guess, stains on my coat? I tripped this morning and spilled it _everywhere." _Sherlock nodded instead of telling her the truth; that he had watched her drink her coffee and tea for two years and he knew her preferences; he knew _everything _that he had been able to deduce from their time together. He only just stopped himself from breaking into her flat and sneaking to Bozeat to secretly 'bump into' her family and friends, so he could consume every single piece of knowledge that made up Molly Hooper.

"See you in a bit, then?" she asked. He nodded sharply and silently. "Stop _obsessing _and maybe I'll let you take a foot home."

Sherlock turned back to the sample in front of him. At least there would be a body part out of his adolescent and humiliating floundering.

* * *

That evening he stored the foot in his freezer, hidden in a small cooler to protect John's delicate sensibilities (he had _not _reacted well to the toes or the eyeballs, and their companionship was new enough that Sherlock was easing him into it) and collapsed in his chair. He devoured the contents of Mrs. Hudson's cupboards and refrigerator before he surrendered to a fourteen hour slumber.

When he woke, his mind shifted steadily back to its normal setting, and he moved on with his life, ignoring the awful wrenching of waking up alone and cold.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Sorry for the slight delay! I'm moving internationally in about three weeks, so everything is a little frantic. I would like to continue my grateful thanks to forthegenuine and americancumberbabe for their thorough and insightful comments, as well as a warm thank you to everyone who has reviewed. I'm sorry I haven't had time to reply, but I barely have any time at all. Everything should be fine in the next month, but until then — I hope you enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

"And _what_ exactly is this plan of yours?" John hissed as Sherlock abruptly turned and quickly left the empty morgue. "You think you can just _ask _a doctor for the bodies? For god's sake, we don't even have Dimmock's permission to _be here."_

"Really John, I would have thought that you would have realised by now. Bending the rules is instrumental in crime solving, particularly when your science is _deduction," _John rolled his eyes, almost jogging to keep up with Sherlock's wide stride (his limp forgotten of course). "Besides, we are not asking _'a' _doctor, we are asking Doctor _Hooper."_

"You are such an arse," he snapped. "Where are we _going?"_

"The cafeteria."

"_Why _are we going to the cafeteria? I thought you didn't eat when you're working."

"Because it is _dinner time," _Sherlock smirked. He was certain that this would pay off; Dimmock would be forced to admit defeat and finally loosen their leash. He spotted Molly as soon as he stepped into the cafeteria, wrinkling her nose resignedly as she weighed her dinner options. "Come along, John," he said brightly, almost skipping towards her.

"Hello Sherlock," she murmured as they approached. "Hi John," Sherlock frowned. _She hadn't even turned around. And why had she used a more informal greeting with John?_

"All right, Molly?" John managed, trying to catch back his breath. She turned her head to smile at him. _Friendly; platonic — John's attraction hasn't affected her. Good._

"Yup. You?" He nodded and waved his hand at her, massaging a cramp in his side. "Are you two jogging, or is there something you need?" she asked Sherlock pointedly. He smiled blandly and pointed at the buffet instead.

"What are you thinking: pork or the pasta? This place is never going to trouble Egon Ronay, is it?" He smiled brightly as she began to laugh, before he nodded easily to the display. "I'd stick with the pasta. Don't want to be doing roast pork - not if you're slicing up cadavers."

"A good point — though a salad might be even safer."

"Dull."

She raised an eyebrow. "Not all of us have whatever alien metabolism that lets you eat three large helpings of fish and chips without gaining a _pound. _You don't even _exercise," _she grumbled, reaching for a plastic container with limp greens, yellows and oranges. Sherlock winced and took a step away. "Of course you're frightened of _vegetables," _she muttered, moving forward in the line.

"Subpar food is something I avoid, Doctor Hooper; fear does not come into it," he snapped, ignoring the elbow John shoved into his side.

"Mm. Right. Are you two working here tonight?" Molly asked distractedly, reaching for soup.

"Need to examine some bodies," Sherlock said simply, cutting John off as he opened his mouth. He was trying to avoid any attempts of inane conversation between John and Molly, otherwise they would end up spending the night chattering. His flatmate was surprisingly talkative around women; it irked Sherlock that _Molly _counted as one of the women he leered at. John understood the slight for what it was, and elbowed Sherlock again.

Molly halted immediately and swung back around to peer suspiciously at Sherlock. "_'Some?'" _she asked dangerously.

"Eddie Van Coon and Brian Lukis."

Molly didn't even glance at the clipboard in her hand. "They're on _my _list. Funny that." _She was fighting with the barista obviously, _Sherlock observed, surprised at her sudden hostility. He tried to flash a smile at her, but her narrowed eyes told him that perhaps it was not the best way to be on her good side at the moment. "The paperwork has already gone through; _before _my shift started."

"Could you wheel them out for me again?_" _John coughed loudly and none too subtly, a comment on Sherlock's question, no doubt. He tried widening his eyes to seem innocent and smiled again. It only fueled her, he saw, her eyebrows worryingly forked.

"_Before _my shift, as in, you should be talking to _that _doctor. Matt — go bother Matt," Sherlock snorted; he did not _work _with Doctor Bauer. Sherlock Holmes had high standards which excluded the philandering, bumbling alcoholic.

Sherlock chanced a smile and pointed to her hair. "You've changed your hair—"

Molly rolled her eyes, moving to the checkout. "Nice try, Sherlock. Unless you have _explicit _permission—"

"Both men were murdered by the same black market organisation. Identifying them as members would help us convince Scotland Yard to be more accommodating to my deductions, which have so far been completely correct and ignored." He was silent for a beat; she was listening now. "More will die if we don't act quickly," he said soberly and perhaps a touch dramatically, stepping back onto John's foot at the amused noise the man made.

Molly paused, exhaled heavily, and then winced. "_Fine. _I suppose I don't have time to eat?" Sherlock grinned widely and shook his head, plucking the containers from her hands. He threw them back onto the counter, ignoring the worker's indignant cry at his carelessness. He grabbed Molly by her shoulders and steered her out of the cafeteria, paying no attention to her sighing and grumbling and the doleful glance back at the toxic food.

"The style is usually parted in the middle," Sherlock murmured in her ear as they walked. She had stopped resisting, but Sherlock couldn't seem to let go.

"Uh… well, yeah…" Molly seemed off-balance, almost _nervous _at his warm breath ghosting over her ear. It was a side of her that Sherlock found he was quite proud to have evoked.

"It's good. It, uh, suits you better." He could see her struggling to speak, as they stopped in front of the elevator to wait for John. She was confused and looking for the words to reply, something Sherlock was anxious to hear. Her mouth was open, her eyes squinting up at him, and there was no way she couldn't see the blush Sherlock had been unable to stop from flooding his cheeks.

"Wait up!" John called, crossly, providing enough of a distraction that Molly had moved on by the time John had reached them. Sherlock was grumpy for the rest of the evening, and Molly unnaturally quiet. By the time they left, John was eyeing him thoughtfully (never a good thing coming from John Watson), and Sherlock was thankful that they had a distracting night rifling through the dead men's books ahead of them, significantly lengthened when John _insisted_ on including Doctor Sawyer in _their_ case.

* * *

When it was all over, and John and Sherlock finally returned to the flat, John was furious and shell-shocked and silent. He pushed his way in first and then slammed the front door in Sherlock's face. By the time Sherlock had overcome the shock and made his way into their still cluttered flat, he could hear the shower running. Doctor Sawyer had ended the relationship, because for no other reason could he be angry. He had saved the woman's life! It wasn't Sherlock's fault that she now didn't want to… _'get off' _with John. Oblivious and lost with how to deal with this problem, Sherlock chose it as a suitable excuse.

She answered on the second ring. "Sherlock?" Molly asked sleepily, sounding warm and comfortable.

"Doctor Hooper, I was hoping to ask you—" there was a rustling that cut him off, and a decidedly drowsy and _male _voice that spoke to Molly.

_"__Who is it, love?" _the gruff and scratchy voice asked.

"No one," she said aside to the thirty year-old _coffee barista._ "Sherlock — what's up?"

He hung up the phone immediately, and shut it off. There was a pounding, clenching force in his chest and stomach, independent forces demanding different things from him: _he _wanted to be the one to see Molly grumpy and rumpled with fatigue, but more importantly he did _not _want that barista to continue to get in the way of Sherlock's sporadic and tentative intentions to… _something _with Molly Hooper. The knowledge that she had not even considered him, that she was wrapped up in somebody else lashed through him painfully.

Instead he ordered more Chinese food than two people could ever actually need in one sitting, all of John's favourites in the mix. He still hadn't emerged from the shower by the time the food as arrived, so Sherlock, angry and guilty and aching for the normality of the _flat, _spread the food across multiple and various surfaces in the sitting room, and even started a fire. There was warmth and light; a disgustingly normal scene, but it seemed to be enough for John, who entered and sat quietly as Sherlock furiously abused his violin, picked up a box and dug in.

"So," John said steadily, once Sherlock finally put the bow down and threw himself in his chair to attack the food John was taking forever to consume. They were both tired, and Sherlock did not like the alertness in John's eyes. He was beginning to understand that when John was quietly thoughtful like this, everything he was doing slowed down infuriatingly, and there was nothing to be done but let him get it out of his system.

"Speak plainly, John," Sherlock snipped, shoving a piece of meat into his mouth. "Subtly is not your strength."

John clenched his jaw but did not take the bait and snap. "Molly Hooper."

Sherlock frowned. "What about Doctor Hooper?"

John snorted at his stiff formality. "So much for married to your work then," he continued chortling, as Sherlock found the anger that he had suppressed after phoning Molly rising to the surface.

"I _assure _you I have no idea what you mean by that. Not all of us fall over the first woman we meet at our workplace," Sherlock snapped, hiding behind a random woman's magazine that he had stolen from Molly, so intent on his nerves that he didn't realise that magazine was upside down.

He didn't have to look to know that John was rolling his eyes. "Sure, and the way you never stop _staring _at her is completely platonic and professional, especially the way you try and incinerate any man who dares _talk _to her. Yeah, right, _innocent. _It must be me making up outlandish stories again without _any _facts, right?"

Infuriated, and apprehensive of the words close to flying out of him, Sherlock threw the magazine aside, and launched himself out of his chair, storming out of the sitting room and into his room. He slammed the door four times, enough that some of his anger began to bleed out. He could still hear John's laughter ringing in his ears, and he _hated it. _He understood that this was what '_normal_' camaraderie was, but friendship and sentiment, trust and promises had never ended in anything but broken, raw disappointment. It was why Sherlock had avoided forming any close relationships since university. He would never forgive Victor, and considering Mycroft's fury, Sherlock didn't think he would even step foot in England again.

But John Watson and Molly Hooper were somehow different; they were worth _more. _John was beginning to accept Sherlock, an unsettling reality, but Molly _knew _him, in ways that he would not and could not ever understand. And even then, she didn't ever really _see _him, no matter his efforts.

Quietly, Sherlock reached for the Scotch he kept in his bottom drawer. Tonight had not been a good night.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: _So sorry_ for the delay. This past month I moved across the Atlantic, and back to Canada, and in the midst of setting up a household, I had neither the time nor patience to sit and go through the pages and pages I needed to edit. Plus, we only just now figured out the internet situation, so all of my apologies for those who were waiting for the next chapter. The story has not been abandoned, I fully intend to finish it, though for some reason my original ending decided to tear itself up and extend into the end of series two and then onto series three, so now I have a lot more material to work with. I am starting uni in twelve days, so business is not at its end yet, but I do promise to try and have one chapter up each week.

Now: I would like to thank my betas, all who were kind enough to leave such encouraging comments, and everyone for their patience.

* * *

Perhaps sensing the sincerity of Sherlock's distress, John had reined in his nosiness and his teasing by the next morning; he didn't say a word about Molly. But no matter John's likely gentlemanly inspirations, now it was impossible to take John to Barts without his smirks and poorly disguised laughter. If Molly noticed, she didn't pay attention to the strange behaviour, and Sherlock refused to acknowledge it. But John 'Three Continents' Watson did stop watching and flirting with Molly, reducing his interactions with her to innocent friendliness (something he continued to not-so-subtly point out), for which Sherlock was quietly relieved.

Even better, Molly had broken away from the barista — to his utter, unabashed glee — after she had caught him stealing oxycontin and vicodin from the pharmacy beside his coffee station. She had even been the one to turn him in; cementing itself as one of Sherlock's favourite arrests. He had watched discretely from the lobby, as the barista was taken into custody, his incoherent and indignant squawks likely attributed to the high he had yet to come off of. Molly carried the anger and disappointment in her shoulders and stance for two weeks, but there was an absence of heartbreak in her eyes and the lines of her mouth that soothed Sherlock monumentally, as he brought her coffee and convinced her to help him with his various experiments, a small flame in his chest glowing whenever he evoked genuine laughter or smiles.

For some time, life had returned to a bearable place, and he staved off his addictions with a well-practiced mind. Then, months later, as a rogue bomber tore through London, using his victims as mouthpieces and taunting Sherlock with a game too vague to see clearly, Molly's new, gay beau walked through the door. Sherlock hadn't known she was dating, which he would later cite as the excuse for not seeing James Moriarty for who he really was. At the time, it was a poorly dressed man with a lecherous smile that waltzed into the lab, catching Molly in his arms and kissing her soundly.

"Molly, _hiiii," _he purred, resisting her attempts to pull away. Molly barely glanced at him, pushing at his arms to hand Sherlock the next slide. Children with bombs strapped to their chests tended to give Molly Hooper a very narrow focus, Sherlock observed almost happily; their relationship could not have been serious.

"Hi Jim, here, Sherlock," Molly said absentmindedly, missing the way Jim's eyes flashed and _shone, _flicking over Sherlock eagerly.

"Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes?" 'Jim' asked in a lilting tone. "I've heard so _much _about _you; _I'm such a _fan." _Heat flooded through him, bubbling furiously with an anger he was usually better at repressing. It deflated immediately once Sherlock properly observed the man.

"Gay," he said blandly, pleased with his impassiveness.

"_What?" _Molly asked in a high voice, and John began to laugh nervously.

"I mean, ah — _hey," _Sherlock gritted out, cowed by the anger and indignance on both of their faces.

'Jim' placed his number discretely underneath a metal dish beside Sherlock, unmoved by his deduction. "I should go… pick you up at _six?" _He kissed her mouth deeply, ignoring Molly's distraction and a continued lack of response before he sauntered out. Molly stared up at him with a deep fury he rarely saw from her; her fists were clenched and an angry flush was spreading up her neck.

"Sherlock…" John muttered warningly, but he was too far gone, churning with anger and jealousy.

"_Gay, _Doctor Hooper," he snapped hatefully, "you _really _should be able to discern the difference at your age. He hasn't expressed _any _physical interest in you, now _has he?" _

"He isn't gay," she hissed back anyway, though the way her hands clenched told him the exact measure of the hardness of his words.

Sherlock snorted. "With that level of personal grooming?"

"Because he puts a bit of product in his hair?" John interrupted incredulously and unhelpfully. "_I _put product in my hair."

"You _wash _your hair," Sherlock snapped, pushing away the leaping twist in his intestines. "No, no_, no, _there's a difference; tinted eyelashes; clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines; tired clubber's eyes_. _Then, of course, there's his _underwear."_

_"_His underwear?" Molly and John chorused. There were angry and perhaps stressed tears beginning to crowd in her eyes, but Sherlock pursued it relentlessly, wild with the amount of tension in his body; with Molly Hooper's blatant ignorance of him, in favour of the gay, IT worker. What was interesting about fixing computers? could she choose a more monotonous man?

"Visible above the waistline — _very _visible; a _very _particular brand and of course —" he reached for the slip of paper, "the _extremely _suggestive fact that he just left his number here for _me. _I would suggest Doctor Hooper that you quickly break it off and save us all some time," Sherlock broke off, spitting the final words at her with a surging bitterness. Molly swallowed hard.

_"__You — _I _can't, _just… oh, I_ can't believe you," _she said nastily and incoherently, tearing a file from the table and storming out.

"Charming," John sighed as the door banged shut behind her. "Well done; jealousy is _such _a lovely colour on you."

"I am not jealous," Sherlock snarled, almost snapping one of the knobs off the microscope. "I'm just saving her time, isn't that _kinder?"_

"'Kinder?'" John asked shrewdly, crooking his fingers in needless air quotation marks. "No, _no, _Sherlock. That was not kind. Never wonder why you're the one she isn't dating, _Jesus." _He grabbed his phone and started to walk away, while Sherlock tried to hide any reactions.

"Where are you going?" he demanded instead.

"For a coffee. Or a walk. Whatever; you can pick."

Left alone with the sneakers, Sherlock was brutally reminded of how much he _hated _being alone.

* * *

He was an idiot. An overemotional, dulled, _idiot. _How could he not have seen this? seen him? Wasn't it all so very terribly obvious? James Moriarty seemed to agree, Sherlock could feel his interest waning in John and he, the tangible sense that he was toying with them was fading, as were their lives. Despite that, Moriarty's flushed face did not seem too displeased with how far the three of them had come. The phone call was their lifeline, and for a time Sherlock did not even care who was on the other line.

"Sorry…" James Moriarty trailed off delicately in a heavy dulcet tone, his eyes slowly tracking them both. He hunched his shoulders, backing away. "Wrong… day… to _die…"_

"Oh, did you get a better offer?"

Moriarty grinned widely. "You'll be hearing from me, _Sherlock Holmes." _His eyebrows furrowed together, a viciousness circling restlessly. Sherlock kept the gun pointed at the door he exited through, his arms refusing to put it down, his ears pounding. John finally turned back to face him, still gasping.

"What happened there?"

But Sherlock did not answer. Pulled back to reality, as Moriarty's darkened tailcoats disappeared behind the swinging doors, he ripped his phone from his pocket and dialled furiously. _Molly. _His throat was clogged and he was violently nauseated, the single thought thundering through him. _Molly._

She didn't pick up.

_She always picked up._

_"__Sherlock!" _John shouted, smashing his open palm across Sherlock's face. It barely registered; he couldn't _breathe _or even pretend to focus on what John was saying, haunted by the sudden image of Molly, dead and abused because of his stupidity, his _arrogance, _his inexcusable _carelessness. _It occurred bleakly to him that the last words he had spoken to her were cruel and barbed, and the final thing he had heard from Molly Hooper was her seething fury and humiliation. _Impossible, _he thought, panicked. _Unacceptable._

"For _Pete's _sake; Sherlock, _snap out of it. _I _will_ call Mycroft — Sherlock!"

"Molly," he finally managed to gasp, catching a thin thread of coherence at the threat of his brother's involvement. John slapped him again and gripped the collar of his shirt with wiry, shaky hands.

"Sherlock, we'll find her: we need to call Scotland Yard, _now. _Moriarty might still be in the building."

Sherlock wholly doubted it, but John's panic managed to draw him back to a veritable grounded state. Slowly, he stepped back, sinking into the depths of his Mind Palace and trying to pick through the wreckage. He locked himself in the cold and dusty attic, the only place Molly Hooper had yet to be able to touch. He was above everything, shut down to his most basic and coldest functions, and there was a part of him that breathed it in gratefully.

"Of course," he gasped. "Call Lestrade," he instructed, his voice steadying and cooling. He picked his phone off the ground, ignoring the deep cracks in its screen.

_'__Find Molly Hooper.'_

Mycroft replied minutes later (his shock no doubt delayed him), just as Lestrade arrived at the pool.

_'__Very well.'_

* * *

Moriarty had left them with his deranged smile and lilting threats, still echoing through both of them. Lestrade — infuriatingly enough — brought a full team, largely filled with those intensely antagonistic towards Sherlock. The apparent professionals were distastefully _smug _at their obvious fright and Sherlock had to restrain John twice from flying at Anderson, adrenaline still pumping steadily through the former soldier. He was finally dragged away by one of the medics (Lestrade had called an _ambulance), _most likely to be swathed in a shock blanket, while Sherlock more calmly explained the situation to Lestrade, vague on the connections that had been missed (and he did not admit that _he _had been the one to miss them). Lestrade, whose fatigue was becoming detrimental to his brain function (he had been sleeping in his office), seemed incapable of following him.

"Hang on a minute," he interrupted for the eighth time. "Molly Hooper's _boyfriend _is James Moriarty? Molly Hooper? The girl from the morgue?" Sherlock sighed impatiently, struggling to stifle the prickling of annoyance and urge to correct Lestrade: Moriarty had not been her _boyfriend, _and she was not a 'girl,' and _furthermore, _Lestrade had met her countless times. She was a grown woman with a medical degree and a respected career, whom _he_ had put in danger.

"He targeted her as a means of access to me. I saw him briefly a week ago — for perhaps a minute or two. Other than noticing that Doctor Hooper's newest attempts at dating was with a gay man, it did not occur to me that he was the one behind this particular operation." Uneasy with hiding behind patronising Molly, Sherlock scowled as a smirk flickered across Lestrade's face. Typical; a psychotic maniac had just concluded a killing spree that was presumably not his first, and Lestrade instead busied himself with the amusement at that _slight _detail Sherlock had missed.

"...Has anyone called her?" Lestrade asked after a moment, checking his watch.

"No," Sherlock lied, biting out the words, "but I doubt we will learn anything from her. Doctor Hooper is no criminal; she is hardly that subtle." Lestrade's look of disgust was familiar and condemning, and Sherlock revelled in it. _This _was familiar territory; he could survive easily in this.

"You idiot — what if she's in trouble?" Lestrade demanded crossly.

Sherlock steeled himself, but continued dispassionately and ruthlessly. He couldn't trust anybody; nobody could know. "Moriarty would have had no use in hurting her. Her only contribution was providing proximity to myself." Lestrade swore at him, barking at Donovan to find Molly Hooper. Sherlock's phone buzzed, and he jumped on Lestrade's distraction to pull it out.

_'__She has been found and returned to her frankly pitiful flat.'_

"Are we done?" Sherlock asked immediately, interrupting Dimmock and Lestrade's chirping. Both men cut themselves off and gaped.

"Sherlock — we need to _find _this… _Moriarty_. What do you _mean _'are we done?' He's just _killed _two people."

"He is finished with this round," Sherlock insisted. "We need to wait for the next one. Until then, I am confident in your abilities to bumble about in a semi-correct direction. John, stay with them and answer their mundane questions; you are remarkably good at that, and I have more pressing matters to attend to." He flipped his collar up and straightened it imperiously, marching away and towards the long black car Mycroft had conveniently left at the curb.

Once he was alone and locked inside the care, he began to shudder violently.

* * *

"Be careful with her," Anthea murmured softly, pressing a key into his hand. "I will deal with Mycroft and his questions. You should be _proud," _she said with a smile. "He didn't see this one coming."

"You did."

Anthea laughed slightly. "From the day she kicked that forensics specialist and the detective from the morgue for calling you a 'freak.' You should have _seen _your little face."

"You didn't tell him," he frowned, opting to ignore her. He remembered that day quite clearly.

_"__And _I took down the cameras in the morgue. Not many people understand how much looking up to Mycroft has deprived you; not even your own lovely _parents," _she said brightly, pushing past his sour face. "Deny it all you want, but you could never be sustained with just your work. You aren't Mycroft; you need to stop seeing that as a weakness, and trying to make up for it."

_"__Andrea—" _Sherlock snapped.

"Anthea," she corrected warningly. "Go on — be sentimental. I don't enjoy arguing with you as much as Mycroft."

Sherlock paused, narrowing his eyes at her. "Mycroft doesn't pay you enough," he observed graciously. "_Anthea."_

She grinned; coy. "I tell him so everyday. _Go."_

And he had: pushing through the corridors and glaring at her wealth of nosey neighbours, all of whom seemed to have innocent reasons to patrol the corridor in front of Molly's door. His hand had been poised over Molly's door for seven minutes and forty three seconds, frozen three inches away from the wood. He was terrified of what he was going to find behind her door, and he somehow couldn't convince his hand to knock. There were agents occupying every corner of her street; brand new cameras — subtly — stood quietly where they hadn't before, sensitive to any and all twitches of movement. She was obviously safe. He did not need to be here, in fact, he could turn around and leave right then and it would not change anything; but still he couldn't bring himself to _move, _either towards her or away from the eleventh minute passed on to the twelfth, his phone buzzed angrily.

_'__Would you please just knock and go in there? I am due for a telephone conference with Pakistan and Iran.'_

Mollified, Sherlock took a deep breath. "Molly?" he called, tapping lightly on the door. "It's me," he winced. "Sherlock."

"I'm fine, Sherlock," came her soft, surprised answer after a few moments, almost whispered through the door. "I'm a bit ill, I'll be back at Barts in a few days." His chest — his _heart? — _lurched wildly and terribly.

_"__Molly," _his voice cracked significantly. "Open the door. Let me _see _you. _Please_." Logically, Sherlock was well-assured that time did not freeze in those long moments; his watch continued to tick onwards, the vague lights from the streets outside still throbbed. It did certainly feel like there had been a suspension that he had not agreed to. The only audible sounds was his heavy breaths punched out of him, cut off entirely when the lock finally slid away, a strangled gasp escaping him as the door fell open. Her hair was damp and she was almost drowning in soft material that swathed her body completely. Only her face and neck was bare, mottled with reddish, purple-black bruises. She wouldn't look at him directly, staring resolutely at her feet, and it nearly brought him to his knees. He had done this to her, and abruptly Molly was not the only person fighting against tears. He pushed his way inside without thinking and enfolded her tightly in his arms. She didn't flinch or fight him (he almost collapsed in his relief); she choked on oncoming tears, and relaxed immediately into his hold, grasping his biceps and cradling her head against his chest (her ear was pressed just over his heart, and bitterly Sherlock wondered if she could hear its truth).

Her hair was slightly frizzed and smelled overpoweringly of jasmine and lavender; she had showered and washed herself (almost violently, from the rawness and redness of her skin) at least three times, no doubt trying to get _his_ touch off of her. The thought froze him, horror gripping his throat. He pulled back abruptly with wide eyes, peering at her closely and _desperately. _Molly shook her head faintly at his scrutiny.

"No," she croaked.

"No?" he affirmed wretchedly.

"No," she repeated wanly. He had never wanted to kiss her more, to _reassure _her, but he knew he was teetering on the line, so he limited himself to the chaste hug (it wasn't, but _it had to be_), letting her cry, rocking her slowly back and forth.

"I am so sorry, Molly Hooper," he whispered. "I should have seen it; seen _him."_

She released him, stepping backwards to swipe at her face, and he had to force himself not to reach for her again. "That wouldn't have helped," she said wearily, sniffing loudly and tugging self-consciously at her hair.

He frowned, clasping his hands together. "What do you mean?"

"It wasn't Jim who grabbed me," Molly said in that trembling voice, still insisting on using the first name of his alias. _It's Moriarty,_ he wanted to snap. "Turns out you were right about one thing; he's even got a boyfriend." Her bleak chuckle was even worse than when she had cried. "Gay. You just missed the psychotic murderer bit."

"One of his henchmen?" Sherlock asked quietly, kicking himself. Of course it hadn't been Moriarty. He would have had no use in hurting her. Only John had figured out his… attachment to Molly Hooper and only Andrea — _Anthea — _seemed to understand the extent of it.

It needed to stay that way, he realised soberly.

"Yeah," Molly said tiredly, rubbing her eyes fiercely, long enough that she missed his complete emotional retreat behind a coward's wall. His face became marble and his hands stop reflexively clenching, returning listlessly to his sides. He took two sizeable steps backwards. "Seb," she enunciated clearly, coughing and laughing at herself.

He breathed in deeply, twice, and blinked. "You will obviously need to come to Scotland Yard tomorrow. You will need to make your statement, and Lestrade will want to question you," he ground out mechanically. She started noticeably at his abruptly cool and detached voice, peering up at him.

"Q-_question _me?" she stuttered, twisting the sleeves of her jumper. "But you don't _I — _Greg can't think that… I didn't _know, _or even _suspect," _she protested, near tears again. "I went out with him three times, two of them were our coffee breaks and the third a lunch _at the hospital, _and then I broke it off! I had _nothing… _I would _never…" _He kept his face blank, as she gasped herself into hyperventilation, barely capable of shaping the words.

"I doubt there is any need for a further security detail. I will tell Lestrade to expect you before noon tomorrow. I would advise you breathe into a paper bag; get yourself under control before tomorrow. Try not to date anymore criminals before then. My energy is expended enough on James _Moriarty _already." He was a monster, not even human; ruthless, cold and cruel, but not deranged enough to drag her down with him, particularly with his first genuine arch-enemy (John would have to eat his words, Sherlock realised bitterly).

"Good night, Doctor Hooper," he said in an unconcerned tone, sauntering out of her flat and shutting the door firmly behind him, in her tear-stained and vulnerable face. He whisked out of the block of flats, concerned that he might too break before long.

Anthea was waiting outside.

"Ruined it then, did you?" she asked crisply. He ignored her, winding his scarf around his neck while he surveyed the surroundings of Molly's flat.

"Reduce her security detail; it needs to be _discreet," _he instructed. "No one can know she matters."

"To you?" Anthea clarified sarcastically.

Sherlock ignored her. "And keep it from Mycroft. He would trade Doctor Hooper in for a big enough cake."

Anthea raised an eyebrow. "I don't keep anything from Mycroft."

"Yes you do."

Anthea paused with narrowed eyes. "Nothing he needs to know."

"He doesn't _need _to know this," Sherlock implored quietly. "He can't be trusted with this; make _excuses, _believable ones." Anthea sighed deeply (she really had spent too long with Mycroft) at his urging, and then began to tap quickly at her phone.

"Fine. You have six months, and then Mycroft learns everything," Anthea leaned in. "Fix. This. Mycroft and I would rather you stay away from whatever games that maniac has planned."

"I will," Sherlock Holmes vowed in a shaky, cracked whisper.


	5. Chapter 5

Moriarty was clever; that much was clear. He was also no amateur or mystery to the international community. He was on the no-fly list and a private, hidden most wanted list available only to the top tiers of the relevant governmental agencies. There was an entire filing cabinet crammed with his records: his known aliases, his suspected parents and upbringing, psychological profiles and full analyses of his crimes and demeanour… he was not careful — much to Sherlock's surprise — too absorbed in his own superciliousness and his games to take their threats seriously. To his credit, any spies so far put on his trail had either disappeared, turned to his side or found mutilated and dead on the doorsteps of their unsuspecting family. It was almost impressive that his name had been kept out of public record thus far, though much to Sherlock's disadvantage, to be sure.

Had the circumstances been different, Sherlock might have enjoyed his little game. But Molly had been hurt, even without Moriarty's express orders, and explosives strapped to John's chest. From the descriptions and video feeds, it had been Sebastian Moran who attacked her, a known criminal from South London. It was an embarrassingly slip up for Moriarty; Moran's level of influence was transparent. It would seem that Moriarty did in fact have a heart of his own, with the slightest fraction of room for sentiment. He just was not as concerned with hiding it. At least Sherlock _had _been correct about his sexuality.

_(A small comfort, but in his loneliness Sherlock took the victory)._

Within the mountain of files, Sherlock discovered that James Moriarty had prompted and consolidated the largest international alliance since the second World War: prejudices and differences across several continents had been set aside in order to capture Moriarty and destroy his wealth of employees. Their efforts were pitifully anemic; the most the files could offer were tidbits of information that did not offer Sherlock any tangible or useful leads. Moriarty had disappeared, and no one had the slightest idea of how to find him. All the more frustrating, neither Holmes brother could unearth any new information.

"Siberia," Anthea informed them one evening, after an exhaustive session of bickering. "He's strongest in Siberia; the largest numbers of informants and assassins are spread mainly across Barnaul, Irkutsk, Omsk and Tyumen. He brings his employees across borders as needed, but that is their base." She threw the folders onto the desk, her inelegance speaking volumes of her irritation and exasperation with them both.

"Anthea, please," Mycroft snapped, pulling his overcoat back on after another particularly barbed comment from Sherlock. "The information we have gathered _clearly _points to his main resources in the Irish radicals!"

"Be _quiet, _Mycroft," Sherlock snarled. "Don't be stupid; he isn't that _tediously _obvious; his largest base of support is in the _Middle-East."_

Before either of their glares could regress into _another_ shouting match, Anthea exhaled loudly enough that they paused to look at her. "You are both not only _grossly inaccurate, _but blind and childish. He hasn't been involved with anything in Ireland in nine years, and he quickly backed off the Middle-East as soon as the Taliban and Al-Qaeda made themselves priority targets for the Western powers. Read. The. _Files. _And _no," _she directed at them both. "It has never been in my job description to fetch you coffee. There is a machine three doors down. _Get it yourselves."_

"You bring me coffee," Mycroft interjected indignantly.

"When I'm in the mood to be _nice," _she snapped. "Which I am not, presently."

"You work for _me," _Mycroft protested petulantly.

He immediately shrunk underneath her glare. "Which is the _only _reason North Korea has yet to succeed in blowing up the world," Anthea said, clipped and dry. "Now, _read," _she instructed, jabbing a finger viciously at the files, before she sauntered out of the room, ignoring them both.

Slowly and reluctantly, they glanced through the papers piled haphazardly, and then up at each other.

"Siberia, then," they chorused grudgingly, each taking a large folder to open and find out how correct Anthea had been.

* * *

"Mycroft is going to call you down to Buckingham Palace," Anthea hissed into the phone, as Sherlock turned off the video feed of himself, and watched John bumble about with a distant amusement. "Make a fuss about it; but do what he says."

"Am I to know what I'm going there _for?"_

She sighed heavily. "I don't suppose you've heard of Irene Adler? 'The Woman,' colloquially speaking?" Sherlock idly searched his brain, finding nothing.

"No," he answered bluntly, barking at John to keep the camera steady.

"Sherlock, for Christ's sake, could you please focus on this, and call whoever you're on the phone with _back_?" John demanded, twisting the camera with the obvious lack of expertise of an older generation.

"Nope," Sherlock dragged out, prompting John to roll his eyes rather dramatically, swearing unabashedly as he trudged through the mud.

"Irene Adler… do you _ever _read the newspaper?" Anthea demanded.

"Reading something does not necessarily guarantee the information a saved spot in my brain," Sherlock said tetchily. "Furthermore I am above the gossip section of newspapers," he lied.

"Well, you're about to find out," Anthea continued in her rushed whisper. "She's working with Moriarty; you need to… capture her interest."

"_'Capture her interest?'" _Sherlock snorted. "Why?"

"Because she sells her body for a living and _you_ are a virgin, _says the lion to the mouse_. You will need to focus on that brain of yours." The line clicked dead before he could formulate a biting remark, and he went back to John, grumbling.

Yet, two hours later, Mycroft's men dragged them both to Buckingham Palace, and life sped up again as Irene Adler loomed over them both, smiling dangerously. She had no connections and no relationships; she was alone in the world and she preferred it that way. Sherlock found himself slightly entranced by how detached she was, longing for the ability he could vaguely remember once holding in his grasp.

He was intrigued, but only just. Ignoring her attempt at some form of deduction, there was something behind her eyes… a level of intelligence, perhaps, that he found himself eager to explore. If John looked at him oddly, his mouth poised to form a name he refused to linger on, Sherlock was quick to shut down the attempt and distract him. Their kitchen grew to an appalling level of musty organs and soured milk, but it was all in the name of self-denial, so Sherlock allowed the sacrifice.

* * *

He knew her fake death was imminent; it was the obvious next step. What was that old adage? _Absence makes the heart grow fonder? _Perhaps an element of truth, but the only thing Sherlock had been fond of was the distraction she had given him. But it collided with Christmas, and it threw him, a time of year that he vehemently despised for reasons no one had ever been able to successfully guess. John had _insisted _on a party to make up for the fact that his sister was pretending to be sober and clean and a new person, fooling no one. Of all people, he _demanded _thatMolly attend, and that Sherlock make an appearance.

Sherlock argued, snapped, and shot the wall full of holes until John forcibly removed the gun from his hands, but in the end, Christmas 'Eve' drew close, and he lingered, as his flat filled with people he would only begrudgingly admit to care for. He almost missed the days of misanthropy; they had been so very _elegant._

Lestrade and John were already in high spirits, their eyes bright and tipsy. Sherlock had snuck three tumblers of the scotch hidden beneath his bed, and he was beginning to sway, his throat clogged. His eyes flicked to the doorway with every knock, but she was uncharacteristically late, and the last one to arrive.

_Most likely with another coffee barista, _Sherlock sneered to himself, clutching his violin until the bow began to creak.

But Molly Hooper did come, as she had promised, weighed down by an impressively large sack of gifts. She hugged every one in turn (first John, Mrs. Hudson, then John's girlfriend for some bizarre reason, and only then Lestrade), but the moment she seemed to be turning in his direction, Sherlock wheeled away to refocus on his violin, producing a shrieking noise to distract from John and Lestrade's lingering hands and eyes.

"Hello Sherlock," Molly said softly, announcing her nearness with a warm hand on his shoulder, and her gentle breath warming his neck. Sherlock froze, pushing away the shiver that wrecked his body and closing his eyes tightly. When she refused to move, he steeled himself and lifted his eyes.

It pained him. That she could dare to enter his home after so long a silence between them, her hair free and windswept, brushing along his back, dressed in a manner he had never seen this close. She was as comfortable in herself as always, unlike him, where the threat of her thought spun him into a headspace he could never find control of. It occurred to him that they had never faced each other outside of the hospital this way. He understood how John and Lestrade could struggle not to stare, but he hated how much he wanted to close all distances between them. The iron self-possession he boasted of merely crumpled around her. He had been unable to delete the knowledge of how she felt pressed and cradled against his body, and he wanted to indulge himself with a shocking strength he had forgotten.

"Doctor Hooper," he managed after too long, upset when the light in her eyes dimmed slightly. John distracted her with the promise of wine, and she turned and pulled away, leaving Sherlock to tamp down the urge to chase after her. John shot him a knowing look that disgusted him, as Molly rejoined the group, chattering and chuckling with the rest of them. Attention had left him, so he nudged his way back in with cutting remarks aimed at Lestrade's rejoice at the reunion with his wife (it would never last, and blessed be the day both of them _realised _that) and John's tentative hope at his sister newfound sobriety (also a pointless use of belief).

And then, like the beast he was, he saw the present nestled at the top of Molly's gift bag and pounced without thinking, scattered apart with the challenge of the relentless holiday, taunting his loneliness without reprieve.

Molly's eyes jumped to his, open and shocked at the viciousness of his attacks, her fingers tightening over the stem of her glass. John's vague interruptions were easily overturned, and Sherlock reached for the present that taunted him, shaking with the _anger _that she could dare to intrude his home with her domestic _bliss _with some other undeserving and normal _man. _

_To Ted, Love Molly x, _the tag read in her looping scrawl. His mouth tightened and he stared at the meaningless name, ignoring John's demand at his apology. His eyes flicked upward to the open mouths and furious indignation of John's party guests, to the resignation and _disappointment _lingering in her gaze. There was no shock or surprise at his vitriol, and that perhaps was the most painful. He allowed the present to drop from his fingers as his phone sighed, dearly hoping that the gift had been fragile. He stomped out of the room with his phone, before she could provoke him any further.

* * *

It was Doctor Bauer, who pulled out the body. It had been his quiet, twisted hope that Molly would have been the one to answer the call, and wheel out the body of The Woman. His vindictive streak was long and wide, and selfishly, he wanted to pretend that The Woman held his sentimental regard, and that Molly would finally be the one to look on in silent, painful jealousy. But it was the loud and crass Doctor Bauer, lifting his eyebrows suggestively at the nakedness of the body meant to fool them into believing her apparent death. Sherlock and Mycroft grimaced at the distasteful behaviour, and sent him scurrying from the room with pointed revelations.

"It would perhaps be wise to report him," Mycroft said idly, as he passed Sherlock the cigarette. "St. Bartholomew's is a respectable establishment, certainly deserving more than _that._" Sherlock silently took the cigarette, ignoring what it would reveal to Mycroft.

"Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock," Mycroft reminded him shrewdly, his narrowed eyes appearing to mistake Sherlock's quietness as mournful. _Dull, brother of mine, _Sherlock thought absently, grimacing through the low tar. John would at least know the truth, when Mycroft called him. If one of them had to know, Sherlock would always prefer it to be John.

It is only much later, when Sherlock has finally crept back into 221B, that he considered Mycroft's words, echoes of his tireless and relentless childhood indoctrination. Mycroft was correct, unfortunately, as usual (Sherlock's infinite secret), but Sherlock had lost patience for that particular lesson a very long time ago, and he admitted (briefly) to only his mind, that he didn't particularly care.

* * *

Sherlock couldn't quite decide what had prompted him to take the time to track Adler, to follow her to certain death and pull her back at the last moment. Boredom? Perhaps. Pity? Certainly. The knowledge that he had defeated her, and now was the one to lord the promise of mercy over her? Indubitably. He was tired of losing the higher ground to everyone else. However, the level of sheer _drama _was one that surpassed even his own approval, but Adler was certainly amused, flicking her eyes to him over and over and he steered the car into the infinite darkness of the desert, back towards Karachi.

"Are you staying long?" she asked, her voice trembling with laughter.

Sherlock hunched his shoulders. "No."

"It might be longer than you previously anticipated… your driving is truly _abysmal." _

Offended, Sherlock flipped on the radio. "Don't bait me — I would have no trouble leaving you here," he snapped.

Ms. Adler, forgetting her hold on elegance, almost snorted in her mirth. "Darling, what a waste that would be, considering how far you have come to _save me."_

"I was in the neighbourhood."

"Karachi is in nobody's _neighbourhood."_

"Evidently it is mine."

"If you won't have _dinner _with me Mr. Holmes, you really should find another willing participant. Dr. Watson, perhaps? Or are you two still claiming to be platonic?"

"Ms. Adler, you are becoming tiring," Sherlock grumbled. "I would kindly ask that you stay away from the gossip magazines you seem to be inhaling, there is nothing sordid or salacious to find behind those ridiculous articles."

"Ah, too bad, I suppose. I would have loved to be able to claim matchmaker. Imagine the book deal I could have had!"

"How on earth would you have been able to fill a _book _with your lies?"

She raised an eyebrow, smirking at him from the passenger seat. "Well, the point of lying is to add embellishments — I assure you I could conjure a few things to attract a rabid fanbase. You and Dr. Watson are quickly becoming a _fetish _in London… perhaps even internationally."

Sherlock shuddered. "Don't remind me," he told her grumpily.

She sighed. "Very well, spoil all those boys' and girls' dreams. Who else then? A detective you work with, maybe? A forensics specialist?"

Sherlock swerved in the utter disgust that pumped through him, swearing at the squeaking wheels as Adler laughed and _laughed. _"Do you _mind?" _he snapped. "I am attempting to drive through the desert at night — you are making it needlessly impossible."

"Quite poorly," she said promptly. "But we do need to think about this — it would improve everybody's life if you would just—"

"Have dinner?" Sherlock snarled.

"Yes." He shifted uncomfortably, and Adler's eyes immediately narrowed. "Oh, there _is _someone," she guessed with another laugh. "And you have been hiding him… or her, I suppose," she mused, tilting her head. "Who is it?"

"No one," Sherlock barked, the wheels shifting again in the deepening sand.

"I think you're lying, Mr. Holmes."

"I don't _care."_

Sighing, Adler leaned back against the headrest. "Whoever it is, I advise you just get on with it. England's fate most likely depends on it."

"If I have dinner with _you_, is there any chance you will cease and desist?" Sherlock demanded through gritted teeth, almost pulling the steering wheel out of place.

Irene Adler looked at him for several long moments, as a few dim lights of the next town spilled into sight. "I think not," she said decisively. "You are far too inexperienced for me. As thrilling as it would be for you, I am beginning to think it would be a disappointment, and rather… _boring_."

Indignant, Sherlock snapped his head to the side, glaring at her, but she had turned away from him, settling down to sleep. "I am not _boring," _he muttered resentfully, stifling a cheer as the path led away from the sand. He glanced at the woman lying beside him, calculating the time remaining before they could go their separate ways.

"Not too long now, dear," Adler murmured. "We'll be out of each other's hair in a few hours."

"You wouldn't be alive if it wasn't for me," Sherlock reminded her petulantly.

"I would be a great deal richer if it wasn't for you," she replied drily.


	6. Chapter 6

Regular cases had largely been put on the back burner after Adler had been dealt with. The only ones Sherlock engaged in were dull and mostly for show. His experiments had been abandoned, left to stew in the kitchen until John and Mrs. Hudson finally drew a line.

"This is about Moriarty, then?" John said one quiet evening, as Sherlock distractedly flipped through a women's magazine while waiting for Anthea to phone. Sherlock had seen this coming; John Watson could never be called stupid, and slowly he had been approaching the truth of Sherlock's main focus for several months.

"Mm?" Sherlock stalled anyway.

"Don't lie to me Sherlock," John said tartly. "We've barely taken anything higher than a six in five months — since _The Great Game, _actually._" _Sherlock rolled his eyes; John continued to insist to refer to their cases by his clever names for them, and it was a driving force behind the head that was currently being stored in the oven. "You are never _here. _You're going after Moriarty, aren't you? With _Mycroft, _so this has to be worse than I thought."

"John—"

_"__Don't brush me off, Sherlock," _John snapped. "This is about Molly, right?"

"Not everything is about your _supposed_ deductions concerning Doctor Hooper and my apparent attachment to her," Sherlock snarled, clenching the delicate pages so tightly that they began to strain from the staples holding them together.

"My _correct _deductions, _thank you. _And you're wrong. It's always about her, you're just so bloody repressed that you won't _talk _about it!"

"Because you're _wrong_."

"I am not," he insisted quietly.

Sherlock ripped the magazine in two pieces, and then threw the pages across the room. He clasped his hands underneath his chin and stared resolutely at the dwindling fire, the flames feebly flicking around the wood. It would die soon, he thought to himself, in his ferocious silence. Once upon a time, the people in his company would have withered, in facing his warnings, but John never had, and likely never would.

John sighed. "Sherlock—"

"Moriarty's right hand man targeted her, because she had the audacity to respond to Moriarty's false flirtations."

"Yes, I know," John sighed.

Sherlock's eyes flew to him. "How?" he asked unsteadily, swallowing hard. It was unlike him to _ask, _when he could so easily deduce, a fact that John could obviously see.

"I talked to her."

His heart jumped up into his throat. "_Why_?" His lip had curled up and his voice had lowered to a growl without his permission.

"She's the one who introduced me to Mary; we've had dinner a few times."

"Mary?"

"She's my — never mind. Sometimes she joins us for a meal," John said exasperatedly. "I asked her; after you started tormenting her."

Sherlock ignored the jibe. "How is she?" he asked in a tightly controlled whisper, forgetting the uncaring, oblivious nonchalance he was supposed to be wearing. He had not seen her since that awful night at John's party. John's face softened, and he exhaled again.

"Hurt. _Confused. _Physically, she's fine; she recovered from the attack without any problems—"

"I know _that,_" Sherlock said defensively; Molly had not had a doctor's appointment that he did not know every detail of.

"Right," John said, rolling his eyes. "But… _emotionally?"_

"Yes?" Sherlock snapped at his pause.

"She's quieter than when I first met her. I think she misses you. She always starts by asking about our cases, but eventually she'll start interrogating me about you, even though she's trying to be… well, like you. Unaffected." Sherlock's eyes bulged in place, and for almost a full moment he forgot how to work his throat, gaping at John.

"It's too dangerous," he finally managed, his voice almost trembling.

"Yeah, and yet you aren't avoiding me, or Mrs. Hudson…" John said sardonically. "And both of us have _also _been hurt by your cases."

Sherlock winced. "Different—"

"No it isn't!" John interrupted loudly, throwing up his hands. "You _idiot. _You refuse to go to Barts to even solve cases or experiment, let alone see her! What exactly is the plan? You and Mycroft take down Moriarty, and then you start going back to Barts to moon over her? Or are you even planning on telling her how you feel?"

"After Moriarty has been eliminated as a threat," Sherlock forced through gritted teeth, his skin crawling at John's choice of vocabulary. "I may _consider—"_

"It doesn't _work _like that, Sherlock!" John shouted. "Do you really not understand that? Do you have any idea of the effects of what you are _doing?"_

"I am keeping her _safe," _he snapped.

"No — you're pushing her away," John corrected. "She got hurt, and you got scared, and since then you have been pretending that she doesn't exist. After Christmas, after Irene Adler, what do you expect? That she'll be waiting patiently for you to decide to _grant _her with your presence?"

"Well—"

"You aren't _'keeping her safe,' _you idiot,_" _John continued, disregarding their firm rule on the use of air quotations. "You are ensuring that she'll never want to be in the same room as you, ever again because _you're scared."_

"John—"

"By the time this mess actually _ends, _she'll be finished with you. As a colleague, friend, or whatever else you want from her."

"I _can't—"_

"Yes you bloody can!" John yelled. "You are just a _coward," _he cut off, breathing hard. He had been holding in the words for a time now, Sherlock realised. He shut his eyes tightly, pressing a fingertip to the bridge of his nose. "You do _not _get to decide for her, Sherlock," he continued with a terrible whisper. "How often did you remind me that she was a grown woman? Do you think she would appreciate this? Do you actually think she will _thank _you for this?"

"It does not matter," Sherlock said slowly. "Doctor Hooper does not… _share _any affections or sentiment I may have for her. She has a full professional and social life, of which I do not, and never have fit in to." He crossed his arms, bringing his knees up to his chest. "I am protecting myself as much as I am her," he admitted softly. He could hear the rustling of John moving, using his cane to prop himself out of his armchair. Expecting a statement of pity or useless platitudes, Sherlock did nothing as John moved to stand in front of him, looking even angrier. _Hold on._

"You _bloody _idiot," John growled. "Are you really that blind to any kind of _human _emotion?" Sherlock peered up at him, wildly confused.

"What—"

"Of _course _she 'shares' the same feelings with you. How have you not _noticed _that?"

Sherlock bristled. "She dates other men, she has never shown express interest in me, never pushed for something beyond out professional relationship—"

"Have you?"

_"__What?" _Sherlock demanded crossly. "Of course I—"

"Asking to take her to coffee once out of the other fifty times you ask _for _coffee does not count as a legitimate attempt. _No, _it doesn't," John affirmed sharply, stopping Sherlock from attempting to interject. "I can't believe I have to explain this to a grown man in his thirties," he sighed, either to himself or some other religious entity.

"You _don't_."

"_Clearly_, I do," John told him firmly, rolling his eyes. "Molly Hooper is a sensible woman who is not blind to who you are as a character," he said slowly, as if memorised. Sherlock blinked. "I'm starting to think Mycroft might have had to right idea," he muttered. "You _are _that inexperienced with women."

"Get on with it John," Sherlock said warningly, fighting the urge to run.

"Look… just, go _talk _to Molly. Stop avoiding her, try being honest, for once in your — well, your _life, _probably. Otherwise… and I mean this Sherlock, you _will _lose her. No matter how noble you think you're being, it isn't fair to her. She's an adult, and you can't make these decisions for her," Sherlock opened his mouth but John raised a firm hand. "Nope, that's it. No more. Make your choice; I'm going to Mary's." John limped past him, cutting him off with an incoherent and _loud _noise as Sherlock tried to draw him back into the conversation. He shut the door behind him, and Sherlock listened quietly to the heavy thunks of his cane (it occurred to Sherlock that John's therapist really had had her chance; he needed to fix that man's limp outside of the adrenaline filled cases; it was becoming ridiculous) down the stairs and out the door. Mrs. Hudson's silence and lack of nosiness clearly meant that she had taken her evening herbal soothers, and was out for the night. Sherlock was on his own, and how _tired _was he of just _thinking._

Why did no one understand what he was trying to do? He was attempting to _protect her; _to give her a plausible escape from the madness he never failed to bring into people's lives. John had been incorrect; Sherlock _had _seen Molly Hooper since that dreadful night, she just wasn't aware of his looming presence in his flat, reorganising her books and DVDs in ways that Sherlock knew would drive her crazy, and stealing the women's magazines that she had stopped taking to the morgue. Sometimes, in the bleakest hours, when sleep was impossible and he had lost his grasp on any productive thought, he stole over to her flat to peek in on her. She had gradually begun to sleep easily again, weaning off the sleeping aids a doctor had prescribed. He watched her sometimes, but never for long, because the unspoken violation made his skin crawl.

_(Oh yes, he had standards of his own, they were just slightly altered than everyone else's)._

John had to be lying; a weak attempt to get him out of the flat. But nonetheless the words echoed in his mind, and as much as he hated it, hope bloomed in his aching chest. Just as he decided that he would do nothing about it, he realised abruptly that his feet had taken him out of 221B, out onto the street and into a cab. It was only when the cabbie rapped on the plastic partition that Sherlock saw that he had apparently given him the directions to Barts (he knew her schedule better than she did, after all). He drew out several bills to pass over. The cab driver, _heavy smoker of both tobacco and cannabis — how _**_delicious _**_was the smell — recently divorced after his husband had caught him frequenting a brothel. Father of one, but he did not want the child, and was only insisting on visitation to hurt his former lover, _kept grumbling at Sherlock, and for a second it occurred to him that he perhaps had been muttering out loud. He dismissed the thought dully, wishing the man luck with his hired harem, and jumped out of the vehicle, ignoring his indignant squawks.


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: All of my thanks to my wonderful betas, and to all of your kind words and support._

* * *

He stared up at the bright lettering of the hospital's name, and instead of getting _back into the car _like he should have, he moved towards the entrance. He couldn't seem to persuade his brain or his body that this was a terrible idea, that he should stick to the original plan no matter what John had said. He _should _turn and _run. _In fact, it registered that he reached the morgue in record time, fast enough that the sweat that prickled his skin uncomfortably beneath his heavy jacket wasn't entirely due to nerves. There was a painful burn in his stomach, a vast desperation to confirm John's words.

Molly was idly bent over the counter, her lower half jutted out and softly rocking to whatever music flowing through her headphones. She was humming along, unintelligible in her murmurings as she pushed them passed the pen she was chewing on. She looked so normal and relaxed that it punched the breath out of him, and Sherlock momentarily forgot that normalcy was _distasteful, _and the entire events of the last five months. He stepped in quietly, his throat clogged and tight.

He approached her slowly. "Molly?" he croaked, as his shadow drew her attention. She jumped and whipped around, pressing back onto the counter. Her mouth dropped open, and then determinedly closed; pulling out her earphones abruptly and threw them onto the table. When Sherlock did not move, too intent on staring at her, Molly sighed and stepped away, shrugging her lab coat closer to her, pressing her lips into a tight line.

_("...compensating for the size of her breasts and mouth…" he remembered mournfully)_

"I'm really busy right now Sherlock," she lied mechanically, staring resolutely at the floor, as if she had _practiced. _"You'll need to ask someone else for help."

It hit Sherlock then, a shock to his entire system, that this was what John had been referring to. This would be his life now; he had condemned himself needlessly.

"I'm not here to experiment," he said, terrified. "Not to work." It was both surprising and horrifying how quickly his defences fell. It wasn't dramatic, no crashing or burning; just a silent, endless fall. _And she doesn't even know it, _he realised painfully. Molly did not notice, she still would not look at him, and how _destructive _it was in the simplicity of her rejection.

"Then John sent you," she said tiredly, running a hand through her bound hair. "You don't need to be here; I'm _fine." _

"That's what I keep telling myself," Sherlock admitted. "And you _aren't," _he corrected angrily, immediately, his feet moving swiftly, stopping just in front of her. Her head was bowed, her forehead almost touching his chest. It was exhilarating to be so close to her once again; he found himself finally unable to lie to himself any further. "You were attacked." He bit out, forcing himself not to close what little space was left between them.

"Yeah, awhile ago. I'm fine now." There was a warning; a hardness inflected in her voice, that Sherlock saw completely through. She had never been so transparent before. She had taken his example and put on a mask, but it was fragile and so very breakable. It would not take much effort.

But she was off-balance and _sad, _and Sherlock didn't want her to have another reason to hate him. So he waited.

"Molly…"

"I thought it was always going to be _'Doctor Hooper!'_" she interrupted shrilly, her head snapping up, and her fingers crooking in air quotations, even though she _knew _how much he hated them. Sherlock refused to take the bait, however.

"Molly."

"What's different? What's changed so suddenly?" she demanded, her eyes glassy. "You stopped coming to the morgue — you send _Phillip _here instead of coming yourself. What do you _want _now? It must be incredibly illegal, I assume; something to keep you _busy, _because god help us _all _if Sherlock Holmes is bored!" She was laughing through her words, rising relentlessly in pitch, until she was little more than squeaking. The situation was rapidly escaping his control, and he didn't know what to _do._

"Molly, I'm _sorry," _he said, barely able to feign calm, to hide the shame spiralling through him.

"Right, of course — that fixes everything, doesn't it? I don't need any answers or explanations — I'm only an _asset, _after all, no need to bother, to _share _some light on whatever the _hell _Jim means to do!"

Anger flared up quickly, and Sherlock grabbed it to steady his footing. "_'_Jim_?'_" He snarled. "_'Jim?'"_

Molly crossed her arms. "That is how I knew him," she said sourly. "Which is none of your business, actually."

"Ah," Sherlock said sardonically. "He must have really _tried _to wine and dine you. Did it feel _that _special for someone to look at you like you mattered to him?"

"Shut _up," _Molly yelled, moving jerkily away from him and the counter. "Why are you here? What more could you possibly _want? _I'm not even an asset anymore — I have _no use _to you, because somehow I have offended _you _enough that you could just forget me! I clearly never 'mattered' to _you," _she ended on an almost sob, and reality slammed into Sherlock; how obvious, how _glaring. _How had he _missed this? _

They were both breathing hard, their fists clenched. He was panicked; he could see it now. She didn't need him to survive, she never had, but she _wanted him. _She rubbed furiously at her eyes, turning away from him to hide her face.

"What did I do _wrong?" _she pleaded suddenly. The rawness of her voice utterly _floored _him, but he couldn't _think _of anything to say that would be _enough. _Instead he lunged for her, desperate to see her face, crowding into her personal space. She struggled fiercely, trying to pull her hands free to hit him, no doubt, but he did not know how to be _clear. _His brain had completely shut down, he didn't recognise _what _was driving him, but it was that force that pushed him to press his lips down to hers. She froze immediately, and her arms stiffened in his hold. Sherlock stood there and waited, awkwardly and chastely pressed against her, needing her to _accept_ him willfully.

The moment stretched until it snapped, and then abruptly Molly moved beneath him, sliding a hand up his neck and into his hair, gripping it tightly; rolling her body against him. He could not name what exploded inside of him, flaring hotly through his nerves. It was a new and completely unfamiliar feeling, and he groaned heavily, pushing closer to her. He released her other hand, wrapping an arm around her waist to draw her even nearer, laying his free hand on her cheek. It was a heightened madness that he had never known; his pulse was thundering in his ears, so heavy and constant that it scared him, desperately feeling for the vein in her neck. The matching speed of her pulse confirmed everything John had said and he had never seen, making him cry out wildly.

There was too much to feel; the sparks of pain from her nails dragging over his scalp, the strain of his shirt buckling in her tight grasp. The softness of her skin and her viciousness was more than he could handle. The walls and construct of his Mind Palace shattered apart, years of work vanishing in one swipe of her tongue and nipping teeth over his bottom lip. He forgot his fear and his logic; all the reasons he had made for himself to stay away from Molly Hooper. She was necessary, it became abundantly clear.

The tentative sound Molly made when he fluttered his fingers across her ribs made him shiver. She lacked any of the restraint he had tried to cling to, gasping and moaning freely as he kissed her harder and _harder, _terrified that she would vanish, and he would awake alone, _again_.

There was a foreign noise that existed outside of their embrace, followed by a rushed slam of a door. Sherlock would have paid no mind to it, but it broke Molly out of the shared fever. She pulled away, moving her hands to press back against his chest, swerving her head to try and look to find the source of the noise. Sherlock made an aborted attempt to bring them back together, but her firmness sent the cold trickling of reality through him. He released her immediately and stepped backwards. He should _really _leave now, before… just _before. _But he could not do so now; this was an irrevocable change. He could not and would not go back now. Now that he _knew._

"I think someone just walked in," Molly murmured distractedly, moving to the other side of the table, putting a dreadful amount of distance between them both.

"I don't care," Sherlock said honestly, tremulously. She glanced at him, flushing even more.

"Sherlock—"

"You want me," he said wonderingly, an entire world opening at his feet.

Molly chuckled weakly — which seemed inappropriate for the situation — but did not say anything. She was studiously avoiding looking at him, underestimating how her body language betrayed her nervousness. Sherlock just couldn't see _why _anymore. He felt vulnerable and raw, more so than he had ever felt in the presence of someone.

"Molly?" he croaked, panic overwhelming him. She didn't reply, fumbling with random and unimportant papers and licking her lips as if to remove the traces he had left there. "_Molly," _he repeated frantically, trying to follow her around the table. She kept moving, she wouldn't _stop._

"Don't worry about it, Sherlock," she sighed. "Go home, you're stressed. This won't change anything, I swear."

Her words, and the quiet, defeated tone she had used took him aback. She didn't understand — the utterly blind and _stupid _woman couldn't see what had been lying at her feet for years now.

"I don't _want _to forget it," he growled, his voice cracking shrilly. "I don't want this to _'not change' _anything." He was only reflecting her words back to her, too cowardly to find his own, but still Molly stopped and looked up at him, her mouth dropping slightly open and her eyes widening.

_"__W-what?" _she stammered, her papers slipping from her fingers. Sherlock slowly circled around the table, picking up the strewn reports and neatening the pile carefully. When he finally straightened up, her mouth had closed but her eyes were still stretched too widely to be comfortable. "No — you don't. You _don't," _she continued to stutter. "I'm just an _asset, _not even _that, _not even a friend; you are _married _to your work." Sherlock couldn't stop, shaking and shaking his head at her.

"No. Those were lies," he admitted in a deep whisper. "To you, to myself, to the _world." _

Molly slapped her hands over her mouth. "No," she insisted. "This is another manipulation or trick, isn't it? You don't — you _can't." _She was pleading with him again, her words muffled through her hands. Sherlock did not understand why, but his eyes were crowding faintly with tears.

"This is my only truth," he implored. It briefly occurred to him that none of this had been planned. This was foggy, uneven and unknown territory that he had never intended to travel.

"Sherlock, please. Don't do this; I don't deserve this — not after Christmas. You've never needed to manipulate me to get access — just… tell me what you actually need." She was backing away again, fighting back her own tears, and it was such an intense and unfamiliar pain in his abrupt realisation that he had convinced her so thoroughly of her unimportance, when she was…

"You." It slipped from his lips, and it made him wince, but he had decided that hiding and lying from her was finished. They had passed that point.

"Sherlock," she repeated entreatingly, managing genuine exasperation.

"I'm not _lying, _Molly."

"You have _never _called me by my name before," she yelled. "You show up and _hold _me like I'm _important, _and then you disappear. Now you're back, and kissing me and using _my name? _Are you _high? _Is that was this is? A by-product of a relapse?" She was stalling — very poorly as well. She knew the signs of intoxication, and Sherlock had none of them.

"It made it easier," he said truthfully.

"Made _what_ easier?"

"The pretence that you didn't mean everything," he snapped, gulping in the air that wouldn't reach his lungs. "_You_. Are everything. The heart that Moriarty threatened to burn_."_

"You never felt this way before," Molly accused and blindly Sherlock began to shake his head again.

"I didn't know _how. _Besides," he hissed, "you were always busy with somebody else: the university boyfriend, the cardiologist, the _writer, _the teacher, the librarian, that 'hot' contractor who cut down the tree in front of your flat. The _architect, _the coffee barista… _Jim… _What was the point of being honest when you have never spared me a second _glance." _

"Of _course _I couldn't!" she shouted. "You were addicted to _cocaine _when we met! You were _'married' _to your work and obsessed with puzzles; how could I ever hope to fit into any of that? You have no idea how to act decently around people you _do_ care about; you still refuse to admit that Greg matters to you. Or that you know his name!"

"How is that relevant?" Sherlock spat, crossing his arms firmly.

"Because I have to _protect myself," _Molly cried out, her tears finally spilling over. "And you have never changed for _anyone. _Am I supposed to be that special?"

"Of _course_ you are," Sherlock snapped. "I've never…" he paused, taking in her hurt bewilderment; _she_ didn't even know what she _wanted_ from him. "You're the only…" he trailed off again, the words stuck in his throat. Her eyes were huge and glassy, tentatively waiting, and Sherlock began to understand how vital this moment was. "You are the only person I have ever regarded in this fashion," he tried, wincing at the stiffness, the formality that didn't belong. He sighed, desperately exasperated. "Normal people, I _suppose, _would call this _'love,'" _he said in clipped tones, cursing inwardly at John's influence (he had used air quotations). "But the words seem grossly inaccurate and trite to describe your… _importance _to me. You matter more than anyone ever has, or I suspect ever will."

Molly began to laugh bitterly. "What about Irene Adler?" she asked, pained, and Sherlock blinked.

"What does _Adler _have to do with _any _of this?" he demanded, baffled.

"You identified her by her naked body," Molly hissed, losing the battle to appear in control of her emotions. "Matt told me. You called her '_The _Woman,' on John's blog, _as if—_"

"Because that is herstage name, and when we first met, she confronted John and myself naked; I knew what she looked like," Sherlock explained impatiently.

She wavered. "And Christmas?"

"I had never _seen _you dressed like that before," Sherlock snarled. "And it was for someone _else. _You chose some other, normal, dull, _man _over me, _again." _

She threw her hands up in the air, and glared. "I was dressed for you, you _idiot."_

Sherlock scoffed. "The present _said…"_

"It was for Meena's _husband," _Molly interrupted. "I wasn't just going to your party that night, and I took a cab! There was one for you too!"

"I never saw it."

"Of _course _not! How could I, after you had completely humiliated me?"

It clicked. "You took that as a rejection."

Molly crossed her arms angrily. "I figured you felt guilty about Jim," she said brokenly. "I was just trying… I wanted… I _missed _you."

She stared at him for a moment, her eyes refilling with angry, nervous tears, and Sherlock saw her decision to storm off before she had made any movement. Just as she had turned, Sherlock threw himself at her, wrapping his arms around her trembling form and pressing his lips to the crook of her neck, savouring the way she shuddered underneath him. They were both _morons, _he observed forlornly.

"I'm sorry, Molly," he whispered. "I am so sorry." She curled into his rocking hold without the hesitation he had feared, weeping lightly. If a few tears escaped him too, he dismissed them immediately.

He wasn't sure how long they stood there; he didn't bother keeping count. Molly's slight, hitching sobs gradually slowed and then stopped, until she turned around in his arms to push her face against his chest. There was a despairing quality to the way she clutched him; as if it was a final indulgence.

"Molly?" he asked timidly, trying to resist her loosening grip.

"I _can't, _Sherlock," she whimpered back, her terrified, gasping breaths hovering on his neck. "It would end terribly. You aren't _built _for relationships, and I can't force you to change."

"No, you wouldn't," Sherlock countered quickly and wretchedly, clinging to her. "I would do it voluntarily."

Molly grew firm, removing herself and wiping her face with her sleeves. "No, Sherlock," she said despondently, and Sherlock didn't understand why she was so obviously _lying _to them both_. _"You wouldn't, or it wouldn't last; you'd end up _hating _me. It's better this way, as friends," she tried smiling — a _catastrophe — _but it flickered and fell almost immediately.

"I don't _want _to be your friend," Sherlock insisted softly. "I want—"

"I don't," she lied, _again, _and all of the burgeoning hope drained from him.

"Very well," he said coldly, pretending that his voice didn't horrifically crack. "Doctor Hooper."

"Sherlock," she managed, her voice still trembling. He spun and raced out of the lab, out of Barts, walking the long road back to Baker Street. It had begun to rain.

The front door was locked and it took eight minutes for Mrs. Hudson to answer his steady banging on the door (he couldn't presently remember how to pick a lock).

"Sherlock? Where are your bloody keys? Do you have _any _idea what time it is? This isn't decent for someone your age -" she abruptly cut herself off, narrowing her eyes and peering at him in the poorly lit doorstep. "What happened, love? You look like you've been… _crying." _

"Nothing," Sherlock said hollowly, honestly. "Nothing happened."


End file.
